


"It was never meant to be,"

by pickle001



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, One Shot, President Toby Smith | Tubbo, l'manburg, no beta we die like wilbur soot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickle001/pseuds/pickle001
Summary: AU where Tommy didn't go to Technoblade's house after Logsteadshire, instead to L'Manburg.TW for suicide, swearing, mentions of explosions, mentions of manipulation
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 249





	"It was never meant to be,"

Tommy trudged through the dense forest, the thick canopy of leaves above shielding most of the rain from the dark undergrowth. His steps sloshed and mud stuck to his boots, gluing duff to the bottoms of his feet. Wind hissed through the landscape, shaking the branches of the surrounding trees, a hollow rattling sound akin to the dry clack of bones hitting one another. The breeze raked across his face, the cold making his nose run and sending a small shiver down his spine.

He paused, leaning against a great oak to his left and fiddling with the chain at his neck. The lodestone and compass strung there felt heavier than usual in his fingers, cold from the persistent wind. He brushed his fingers over the engravement on the lid of the compass, small script that read, "Your Tubbo", before clicking it open and glancing at the crimson needle swinging around inside. 

The compass was linked to the matching lodestone, one that Ghostbur had gifted Tubbo only weeks ago. In his exile, it had been a constant reminder of his old home, of the family who had casted him out without a second thought. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out, the way Tubbo had destroyed his own, despite the ache that settled in his chest when he could feel the familiar weight of it in his pocket. It was one of the few things Dream hadn’t taken, hadn’t exploded along with the entirety of Logstedshire or tainted with his manipulation and lies. Now, the needle pointed resolutely somewhere to Tommy’s right, towards his old home, towards L’Manburg. 

Tommy shut the compass with a soft click, tucking the lodestone and compass below his shirt with a sigh. He shivered slightly at the cold metal against his chest, and turned towards L’Manburg, pushing himself away from the tree trunk and starting forwards. 

He traveled in silence, accompanied only by the soft brushes of his boots creeping through the underbrush and the whispers of distant mobs carried in the wind. The rain plastered his long, tangled hair, to his forehead. The usually blond curls were dirty and singed at the edges. In addition to the hair, His time in exile and recent escape from Logsteadshire had dimmed his brilliantly blue eyes to a dim gray, had sunken dark bags under his eyes and hollowed out his cheeks from hunger. He shivered in the cold.

Not long after, he crested a small hill and emerged from the dense forest, rain now pelting his face without the shelter of the trees behind him. He tugged the collar of Wilbur’s coat up, lowering his face to shield it from the onslaught of water and rain. The fabric still smelled like his brother, like the coffee he brewed for himself every morning in Pogtopia and the wood he dutifully chopped to keep their furnaces glowing. Tommy smiled softly at the memories, at the old Wilbur from before war had torn them apart.

Tommy slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out a small potion bottle, swirling the silvery liquid inside. He raised the pot and uncorked it, downing the whole thing in one gulp and shuddering as the potion’s effects washed over him. He could feel the magic flow through his body, a tickling warmth spreading from his chest and tingling in his fingertips. He recorked the bottle and slipped it into the folds of his now-invisible coat. 

He strode down the hill, and stepped into L’Manburg, into the city that he once called home and that now regarded him as a traitor. 

Buildings lined the Prime Path, standing spotless and impassive, freshly reconstructed shelters that blended in with the tall pines scattered across the city. Soft lights from distant lanterns animated the city, the lights evidence of citizens tucked away from the dreary downpour. He followed the Path slowly, taking in the city. He couldn’t help but notice the new market stalls, bars drawn across their openings and closed off for the night, his own eyes peering into him from WANTED posters plastered to their sides.  
Without the bustle and life that filled the square during the day, L’Manburg felt almost empty. And, in a way, it was. No one had come to visit him in his exile, no one had cared about him. His old friends, his family, had been quick to abandon him and all too happy to move on with their lives. L’Manburg held nothing for him now, save old memories and a lingering dread in his stomach as he creeped through its streets. 

As he passed the White House, he tugged the compass again out from under his shirt and clicked it open, watching the thin needle turn to the building beside him, where he knew Tubbo was sleeping, lodestone hanging around a necklace that matched Tommy’s own. He snapped the compass shut, shoving it back into the folds of his coat hastily. His chest ached at how close he was to his friend, his family in all but blood, and the distance that still separated them at the seams. He quickened his pace and slunk further into the shadows, ducking away from stray lanterns that shined through the ever-pouring rain.

He splashed through a small river that divided L’Manburg from the Dream SMP, wearily trudging through the persistent tide. He scrubbed the mud and duff from his boots on a nearby bush as he emerged, ignoring the way the dark fern slithered around his ankles and stung on his skin. 

Tommy slowly made his way to the Bench over the hill ahead of him, again pausing to push his hair away from where it was plastered against his forehead. His hands, previously invisible, had come back into view, and anyone who walked by could now see him. Tommy found that he didn’t care. 

He ran his fingers across the back of the waterlogged wood of the bench, the familiar oak cold and slick in the downpour. He strode around it and took his regular seat, resting one arm across the back of the bench where he would usually be accompanied by Tubbo. Something in his stomach knotted up at the empty air where his friend’s shoulders would usually be, at the and the absence of his warmth and quiet laughter.

Tommy slid a music disc out of his coat pocket and pushed it into the jukebox next to him and the soft notes of Chirp filled the air, trickling among the incessant thudding of the rain onto the ground around him and the rattling of nearby trees in the wind. 

He took in a deep breath, drinking in the life around him. He could smell the grass around him, swaying in the frigid wind, along with the burned and singed edges of his coat around him and the distant baked goods. The sunset ahead of him, although hazy from the grey expanse of clouds, was truly gorgeous, a foggy painting of crimsons and oranges, light yellows and soft violets dancing in the sky.

He tugged the coat around him closer, breathing the residual wafts of sawdust and coffee that marked the previous owner, along with the small embroidered Wilbur at the collar. The old revolutionary coat was still warm enough for him to use, albeit threadbare from wearing and war. It hung loosely on his wiry frame, dripping sleeves dangling past his hands and edges extending down his legs. He had grown into the coat over the years, but still couldn’t quite fill the space his brother had left. 

He heard soft, padding footsteps approaching on the wooden boardwalk behind him, but chose to ignore the anger in the sound. 

Tommy had long since accepted his present, had learned to take whatever life threw at him, had chosen to live by his own terms than by those of the person he knew was rapidly approaching. He had learned to spread his wings, to prune them with confidence and cunning, to hone his skills and live without the influence of anyone else. He had come to terms with his past, with the naive child he had left behind and the man he had become. He had learned his way through life, enduring the scars of battle and betrayal, and emerged, alive. He breathed in the crisp air. Among the cold chill in his bones, among the hollow feeling of sitting alone, among the onslaught of wind and rain stinging his face and drenching his clothes, he felt ALIVE.

Tommy turned to meet the owner of the footsteps behind him, peering into the porcelain mask that had haunted his nightmares for years. He felt vaguely calm, his breathing steady and even and his heart drumming slowly in his chest.

Dream hefted an axe over his shoulder, the enchantments flickering in the rain and shining with the violet light of the sunset. He tilted his masked head. Tommy could imagine his familiar smirk. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, Tommy,” He hummed, coming to a stop behind the Bench.

“I know,” Tommy sighed, shifting around to see Dream better. He dug his boots into the soft earth at his feet to keep himself from slipping off of the slick wood. 

“Then why are you here?” Dream lowered his voice, his tone creeping from a low hum to a growl. Tommy recognized that voice, the same one that used to send him tearing off his armor and cowering as Dream destroyed it.

“Why are YOU here, you green bastard?” Tommy stood, turning to face Dream. Dream ignored him.

“You know what I have to do now, Tommy, don’t you,” Dream pulled the axe from where it rested on his shoulder, and began spinning it idly in his hand. Tommy shrugged and stood from the bench.

Tommy reached into his coat pockets again, emptying them onto the jukebox next to him. The cheery notes of Chirp slowed and stopped as the song ended and the disc popped out of the machine. He stacked Chirp and his other discs on the box, wedging a small note labeled "Tubbo" in a messy scrawl between the discs He unclasped the china round his neck and carefully set his compass and lodestone on top of the pile, brushing his thumb across the cool metal one last time.

He smiled faintly at the confused lilt to Dream’s mask, at the faltering grip he held on his weapon. 

Tommy took a step backwards, resting his boots on the ledge of the cliff behind him. He dug the toes into the soft earth.

“I always knew you would come back, Tommy,” Dream drawled, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to let it be and leave L’Manburg alone,”

“I did leave L’Manburg, Dream,” Tommy sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, leaning back, “I left them a long time ago,” He raised an arm to his eyes, leaving a mock-salute to Dream, to the rain pummeling the landscape around him, to the country that cast him out and the one he had left behind, “But was never meant to be,”

Tommy raised both of his arms, spreading them like wings and leaning back over the edge. 

He watched Dream drop his axe and stumble to the edge of the cliff as he fell, pushing back his mask and gaping in shock. 

He smiled, savoring the cold whistle of wind whipping around his arms and the rush of adrenaline pushing through him.

\--------------------

TOMMYINNIT FELL FROM A HIGH PLACE

[Tubbo_] TOMMY

[Quackity]TOMMY?

[Nihachu] TOMMY

[Awesamdude] tommy?

[Dream] that was his last life.

[Fundy] TOMMY NO

[Tubbo_] TOMMY

[Tubbo_] PLEASE RESPOND

[Dream] it’s over.

\--------------------

Dream’s hands shook as he typed the final message, closing his communicator and scrubbing at the tears streaking down his face. He fought the waves of nausea that washed over him, turning away from the body that sat crumpled at the bottom of the cliff. 

His knees gave out as he collapsed into the bench, gripping his mask in his hands. 

\--------------------

Somewhere, a fox, a baker, and a king huddled together around a hearth, crying and remembering stories of war, of discs, of a bright laugh and a quick wit.

Somewhere, a piglin sharpened his blade and adjusted a crown on his head. Voices screamed for blood, for revenge, pounding inside his skull. For once, he listened. 

Somewhere, a president fell to his knees, clutching a cracked compass and a lodestone to his chest. Tears spilled down his cheeks and stained his starched suit.

Somewhere, a father wept, sobs wracking his body for a child who never got to grow old, a child scarred by war and plagued by fate. 

Somewhere, Tommy was finally free.

It was never meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! ty for reading, i hope you enjoyed this!  
> i posted this story once before but took it down because i hated it, so i’ve done some editing and reposted  
> i treasure comments and kudos, i’d love any critiques or feedback if you would like to leave it.  
> have a lovely morning/afternoon/night :)


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